Signed, Sealed, and Delivered
by Psicygni
Summary: Postal delivery is orderly, precise, and systematic, all aspects of the career that Spock enjoys, and all features that appear to be undeniably absent from his daily route to Enterprise Drive.


_For Sam, who brought mailman!spock into my life, and so much more._

* * *

By the third day, Spock is unable to fit additional letters into the mailbox, so he simply parks his truck and walks directly to the door.

A dog barks, before he has even finished climbing the steps.

"What?" he hears when the door is jerked open in answer to his crisp, short knocks.

"Please remove last week's mail to ensure prompt delivery," Spock says and eyes the dog straining at the grip its owner has on its collar.

"I'm a doctor," the man - McCoy, Leonard- says. "I'm busy."

Spock takes in the t-shirt, the flannel sweatpants, the bare feet. "Clearly."

…

"I can take that," Spock hears before he has even slowed his truck to a full stop.

"Regulation dictates I place the mail directly in the approved receptacle," Spock says without looking up from sorting through the letters in his bag.

"It is from Russia," the man says. He is smiling. Spock does not return the expression as he fits the padded envelope into the mailbox.

…

Carefully, Spock extracts the parcel from the mailbox and lowers the flag to a pleasingly exact angle. He begins to withdraw from his bag the three magazines and one business envelope he is to deliver, only to stop when the box in his hand begins, ever so slightly, to shake.

"It's a book!" A woman half leans out of a second story window of the house before him. With one green finger, she points at the package in question. "Really!"

"Please properly declare all postal contents," Spock says. He places the magazines and the business envelope on top of the vibrating box and puts them all in the mailbox, and though he swiftly shuts the small door on the contents within, the noise follows him until he shifts his truck into gear and pulls away from the curb.

…

 _To our mailman- Our package contains a newly sprouted rosebush! Please don't leave it out in the cold!_

It is temperate today. And the sun is shining. Spock examines the note, written in black ink but with a poorly shaped heart and three stars added to it in what appears to be crayon. He leans closer. There is a dusting of glitter, too. Curious.

Unable to determine if the weather qualifies as 'cold' - and Spock is hardly an accurate judge of such - he returns the package to his truck.

"Mail carrier is the preferred gender neutral term," he says before he drives away. Illogical to speak when nobody is there to listen, but so are antiquated titles.

…

The packaging is mostly composed of tape, with only the remnants of what was a manilla envelope. When the contents within shift together, it sounds as if they are metal.

A wrench, Spock supposes, from the weight. A set of them, and shipped without a proper carrying case.

Not that he spends a moment feeling the edges of the items within through the messily applied tape. It would be an inefficient use of his time, and moreover he does not believe in impinging upon the privacy of those on his route. He is a professional. He leaves the package for the recipient and does not allow himself to wonder why tools would be sent thusly, rather than in more appropriate wrappings.

…

"Look," the man says. Spock eyes the elbow he hooks over the edge of the truck's window, and similarly surveys the grin, the rather blasé lean against the side of the truck, and moreover, the letter the man holds. "Undeliverable. That can't be right, can it?"

"If you cannot legibly write the address, I cannot-"

"-It's legible." Even the man must squint to read it. "Iowa. Riverside."

"Mr-" Spock waits, expectant. Could he, he would read the man's name from the return address.

"Kirk," the man says. He smiles again. "Jim."

"Mr. Kirk, please consider using computer printed address labels in the future."

The man tips his head slightly and the smile widens. "Please consider delivering it for me anyway?"

"No."

Mr. Kirk's smile does not falter. "Pretty please?"

Spock shifts the truck into drive and with a press on the gas, Kirk is forced to retract his arm from Spock's window.

"No," he says again, and does not wait to hear if there is another entreaty.

…

To the last stop on his route, he delivers a package of what he believes is actually books, two envelopes - one seemingly professional and the other with a handwritten address - and a catalogue advertising women's clothing.

The mailbox into which he places these items is clearly labeled with the resident's last name and their street address, and the mailbox door swings cleanly, with none of the stick of rust of others he has struggled with.

Pleasing, truly, to have at least one simple delivery at the end of his day.

—

"Mr. McCoy," Spock says.

"Doctor." The man crosses his arms. Behind him, the dog pants, tongue lolling from the side of its mouth between clean, sharp teeth. "Doctor McCoy. Says it right on that letter."

Spock hands the three envelopes and a padded mailer to the man, though it occurs to Spock that he would much prefer to simply set them on the stoop and force the house's resident to cross the threshold into the rainy day to retrieve his mail.

Of course that, precisely, is the problem.

"Please visit your mailbox more regularly and empty its contents."

"I told you," McCoy says, a hand on the door, clearly threatening to close it. The letters, carried pristinely to him despite the falling rain, crumple between the man's thumb and the wood of the door. "I'm busy."

Spock does not sigh.

…

"St. Petersburg," the man says. Even with the rain, he has clearly been running, and now is apparently waiting for his mail despite his soaked athletic attire. Spock has barely finished closing the mailbox before the man reaches into it and retrieves the postcard Spock just placed within. "It is beautiful, yes?"

Turning the card so that Spock can see the picture serves only to dampen both the image of the city, as well as the message written on the back.

"Good day," Spock says, withdrawing to the relative dryness of his truck.

In his mirror, Spock can watch the man read the postcard as he walks to his front door, despite how the ink must be running, what with the raindrops falling over it.

…

"It's books," the woman says. She either does not notice or does not care that she is becoming drenched, water dampening her curls to a deeper red as she stands there on the curb.

Spock does not extend his arm into the rain to retrieve the parcel sitting in the mailbox. "Per regulation, postal contents must-"

"-C'mon, it's totally books," she says and grabs the box herself. She shakes it once, firmly, as if this constitutes appropriate scientific proof of what is inside. "See?"

In her hands, it once more begins quiver. Even over the rain, Spock can hear the dim sound of the small motor.

"Damn," the woman says.

…

Spock is forced to leave the note announcing a second delivery attempt pinned between the glass door and the house's front door, a challenging task on a normal day, to ensure that it stays where it is placed without falling out of sight, and rendered all the more difficult by the dampness of the paper and now of his hands.

But if the temperature previously was too cold for the plant, he is nearly certain that today must be even more so.

His mother grew roses. Wrapped them carefully every winter. Her garden, once, was full of them.

Spock returns the package to his truck and turns up the heater as he drives away. It has the benefit of warming his fingers. He does not turn towards the back to look at the box in question, as it would be illogical to check on a plant, especially one hidden by cardboard and what Spock hopes is sufficient packaging for its journey.

…

Nails. Or screws, perhaps, from how they rattle. Spock does not shake the package to more clearly determine its contents. No, the clatter as it fell from the racks in the back of his truck was already inappropriate and he does not need to, nor should, jostle the package further simply out of curiosity.

He should not wonder, in any case. And would not have, had the parcel been sufficiently prepared, as opposed to the mess of tape and worn cardboard that comprises its packaging and clearly contributed to its fall. But this 'Montgomery Scott' apparently does not have the same standards for shipping materials as Spock does, nor does the sender- a Keenser, a name that Spock does not allow himself to wonder at any more than he does the package's contents. Or the necessity of quite so much packing tape. Which does, at the very least, serve the purpose of keeping the package dry. Mostly.

…

"See?" the man says around the pen cap he is holding in his teeth. It is unsanitary. Spock does not grimace, though he would rather like to. "I can write neatly."

Painstakingly, the envelope held against the driver's door to Spock's truck, he prints careful block letters, and Spock is forced to watch the slow scratching of first the address, and then the return address. Rain blots nearly every carefully drawn word.

"Done," the man says and hands it over to Spock with what can only be termed a flourish.

Spock hands it back. "You require a stamp, Mr. Kirk."

"Jim," the man calls after him as Spock drives away. He appears entirely unbothered that he remains in possession of his letter and that the cap of his pen has fallen to the ground. "Call me Jim!"

…

The last contents of his mailbag contain another catalog - for boots, not that Spock inspects it, three letters - one from the local university which is thicker than the other two, not that Spock looks, and another package of books. Whoever lives here is clearly an avid reader. A commendable pursuit. As is the neatness of their mailbox and the care with which they placed an outgoing letter within, directly in the middle and within easy reach, so that Spock does not have to uncomfortably lean out of his window to retrieve it.

He tucks the letter into his bag and deposits the resident's mail into their mailbox. It is through happenstance only that he studies the address on the envelope any closer - the sorting machine at the post office is intended for such and it is not Spock's place to inspect that which he retrieves from the residents on his route - but rain has fallen on the letter in its short journey from the mailbox to his truck, and he gently wipes the moisture off, so that the words do not become marred.

The letter is intended for the linguistics department, at the same university from which Spock just delivered that thick envelope. A subject matter that he is not unfamiliar with.

Interesting. Quite, so.

It occurs to him as he drives away that he did not ascertain that the mail he delivered was undamaged by the rain. Illogical to turn back now, as he has his schedule to keep. And yet, reminding himself of such does little to still the urge to do so.

—

Faced with a bitter wind and a full mailbox, Spock hesitates, letters in one hand and his eyes on the house.

It is unexaggeratedly frigid outside. Quite literally so, and in the correct use of that term.

Spock closes the mailbox on the jammed contents within. The stack of mail, he returns to his bag. He could even go so far as to pretend to not see Mr. - Doctor - McCoy open the door to his house and bring back today's mail to the post office, but quite suddenly finds he would prefer to lean out his window and call, "I must return these to the sender."

"Just bring them over!" McCoy yells, one hand on the door and the other pushing his dog back into the house, foiling its escape attempt.

One escape attempt of many. Others of which have been successful.

"As I have previously told you," Spock calls back, "Your mailbox-"

"-Goddamn it, who do you think you are?" McCoy says and yanking the door closed behind him, jogs down the steps.

Spock eyes the door. He can still quite clearly hear barking.

"I am your-"

"-Give me that," McCoy says. When the Doctor holds his hand out for his mail, Spock simply sets it in his own lap. "Per regulation, I must place your items in your mailbox."

"Per regulation?" McCoy asks. "Does it look like I give a damn about your regulations?"

"I would think, considering your profession, you would be at least concerned you are not wearing shoes," Spock says. "It is quite cold today."

The man opens his mailbox with a jerk. The hinges clearly require a generous application of WD-40. "I'm a doctor, not a-"

"-Mail carrier," Spock says. McCoy drops two letters and a glossy advertisement on the ground and when he bends to retrieve them, a padded envelope falls from where he is attempting to clutch the remainder of his mail against his chest. When he straightens, the mess is barely contained. "That is obvious."

"Fine," McCoy says. "There. Can I have my mail?"

Instead of placing the day's mail into McCoy's outstretched hand, Spock leans past him, opens the mailbox and shuts it firmly once he has placed the mail within.

As he drives away, he does not look in the side mirror to watch Doctor McCoy struggle to open his rusty mailbox, nor juggle his mail as he does so.

…

"Good morning," the man says. "It is cold today."

"Mr-"

"Chekov," the man supplies. "Pavel, Andreivich."

"Mr. Chekov, I am entirely able to deliver your mail without your presence."

"It is ok," Mr. Chekov says and the moment Spock closes the mailbox, opens it and sticks his hand in. There are three postcards today. Spock is certain that the man's fingers must be numb from the cold, but this apparently hardly serves as a deterrent against sorting through the cards immediately.

"Good day, Mr. Chekov," Spock says as he shifts the truck into gear. Illogical to wait in the cold for the mail, but Spock can at least appreciate the enthusiasm for receiving letters, which the young man apparently has in spades as he grins down at the pictures on the cards.

…

"Books," the woman says and this time hands the package directly to Spock. "I swear."

"It is illegal to misrepresent postal contents."

Her hands placed on her hips, she asks, "Aren't you not allowed to open it?"

"Double negatives are an inefficient form of-" He stops himself. "No. I am not permitted to."

"There you have it," she says and bounces slightly on her toes.

Spock looks her over. She is rather improperly dressed for the ambient temperature. "I have what?"

"My package," she says and bounces a little more. "Of books."

"You are certain this contains books?" Spock asks.

She shrugs. "Sure."

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he turns to place the box in the back of his truck. It is cold and he would far prefer to roll his window up rather than continue this conversation.

"Books," he says as he turns the heater up. He hopes at the very least she disconnected the power supply, or perhaps removed the batteries all together.

…

Clearly, the residents are not at home. Spock can ascertain this even from his truck. After this delivery attempt, he will be forced to return the package to its sender. A consequence the recipient clearly is aware of, due to the notices Spock has left.

He examines the box in his hands, addressed to a Mr. and Mr. Sulu. Then, he considers the memory of the glitter and poorly drawn illustrations on the note left for him.

He retrieves a pen and on the back of the delivery notice writes, _Your parcel will remain at the post office for an additional three days. Please ask for 'Spock'_.

Not, strictly speaking, proper procedure. But there is a shelf in the back room upon which he often leaves his gloves in the morning, as it is quite fortunately situated directly above the heater. It will bother no-one to leave the package there for the interim and therefore, while not necessarily accepted regulation, not entirely illogical.

When Spock drives away, he leaves the box next to him. So that he will not forget it at the end of his route - no matter his near perfect recollection - not so that he will be able to avoid returning it to the back of the truck. Though truly, it is considerably colder back there, and Spock has no desire to journey away from the warmth of the engine if he does not need to.

…

"Please instruct your acquaintance to improve their packaging techniques," Spock says as he hands over the parcel of what clearly contains wire, if not from the shape of it within, then the few inches of copper that have broken through the packet between strips of tape.

"Aye, will do," the man says and tucks the package under his arm.

Spock pauses. He should be on his way, but instead he asks, "What-" He shakes his head and stops himself before continuing. None of his concern and unprofessional to inquire.

"Just some supplies for a wee bit of fun," the man says. "Air intakes on those trucks are a bit poorly designed, aren't they?"

"Pardon?" Spock asks and turns to follow the attention of the man to where his mail truck idles at the curb.

"Give it a good cleaning and your engine will hum like a well oiled machine."

"It is properly oiled," Spock says. "Routine maintenance schedules dictate proper care and attention to engine oil and grease fittings."

"Check that air intake," the man says and steps into his house before Spock can inquire further.

Holding his hands over the heat vent to warm them, Spock inspects the dashboard, the odometer, and what now occurs to him is the rather shaky noise of the engine. He will inspect the intake, he decides. When it is a warmer day.

Though, he considers as he drives off, it is entirely possible that the rattle in question could be attributed to a certain box.

…

"Stamp," the man says as he hands the letter to Spock. "Address. I even licked the envelope myself." He sticks his tongue out and points to the side. "See?"

"Please utilize a damp cloth or a glue stick in the future," Spock says, holding the cautiously envelope as to avoid contact with the closure.

"Oh. Yeah, gross, right?"

"It creates a more acceptable seal," Spock says and hands the envelope back, the flap waving loosely. He resists the urge to wipe his fingers on his pant leg. "You have improperly closed this, Mr. Kirk."

"You have improperly closed this, Jim," the man calls after him as Spock shifts the truck into gear and pulls away.

…

The box, sent by a reputable bookseller, is quite heavy. Enough so, that were he to leave it on the top step, picking it up again from the ground would be a challenge. It was easier to lift from the back of his truck, and would be equally manageable to simply hand the box to the recipient, rather than force them - her, from the name on the address - to retrieve it from the stoop.

Not that Spock presumes she is incapable of such. Rather, that what merchants believe is a reasonable shipping weight often is rather ill advised. Logical, then, to remedy the situation himself.

It is quite cold out.

With two stiff knuckles, he raps on the door and immediately is rewarded with the sound of footsteps.

"Coming," someone calls. A woman. Excellent - or, rather, at least preferable, he amends him his own mind - to hand the parcel to its intended recipient.

Oddly, an edge of anticipation rises as those steps near.

Though, no. It must be simply for the end of his work day. His own books are awaiting him at home, and if he is reading about topics in contemporary morphology from a volume supplied by this same retailer, that is neither pertinent nor important.

The door opens with a rush of warm air and around the edge of the box sees the curve of a smile and the fall of long hair down a slim arm.

"Oh, they're here," the woman says. Uhura. Miss, he believes. Not that he checked. "Thank you, I can- Maybe on the table?"

The table she indicates is nearly completely covered with other books, some in stacks a dozen deep. All quite neatly organized, in nicely ordered rows, and even from the threshold he can see they have been arranged according to topic.

Gently, he places the box on an area she quickly clears. He sees now that her hair is tied up and that it is long enough to brush nearly to her elbow. Which is bare, revealed by the sleeves of her red sweater that she has folded back over her forearms.

Clearly, she was working. And he interrupted.

Still, it takes him a moment to edge towards the door.

"Thank you," she says again. The nails of the fingers she curls around the doorjamb are painted a deep blue. "And I'm so sorry, but there's a few more of those on the way."

"Of what?" he asks.

"The boxes," she says. "Of books."

He clears his throat. "That is not a problem."

"I appreciate it." This time, when she smiles, he can more clearly see the expression without a box between them. "I'll see you soon, then."

"Soon?" he asks and then realizes, his mind catching up with the word he so unfortunately already spoke. "The books. Of course. I will bring them."

"I'll look forward to it," she says and he nods quickly.

In the truck, he turns the heat up as high as it will go. Nyota. Uhura, Nyota. Miss, he is certain, for nothing sent to her has been addressed to a Mrs.

He does not allow himself to glance at the house as he drives away. He will be back tomorrow. Likely with another unwieldy box. A few of them. To be carried in the cold and, he is certain, having looked at the forecast just that morning, more upcoming rain.

All part of his job. Though he certainly enjoys some aspects of his career more than others.


End file.
